


Quietly, Gently

by winterhill



Category: The Goblin Emperor - Katherine Addison
Genre: Comfort, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Yuletide Treat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-22
Updated: 2018-12-22
Packaged: 2019-09-25 00:43:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,307
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17111213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/winterhill/pseuds/winterhill
Summary: Cala, Csvet and Beshelar take care of an exhausted and grieving Maia. This is a deleted scene set between Maia returning to the Tortoise Room after his last visit to Osmerrem Danivaran, and Maia waking up the next morning and realising he’s forgotten the trip from the Tortoise Room to his own bed.





	Quietly, Gently

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Elemental](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elemental/gifts).



> Thanks to my beta!

How Csvet got the Emperor to agree not to return immediately to the Untheileian, Cala would never know — he’d become dismayingly used to seeing Edrehasivar setting aside his own misery or discomfort in favour of his duty. The emperor hadn’t been able to disguise his tears tonight, though, nor his affection for a woman he barely knew, a woman who was so far beneath his station now that if the story had been told on the streets, no-one would have believed it. Cala loved him for it, his heart aching in his chest as Edrehasivar tried, and failed, to conceal his grief. 

It was well that Csvet steered the emperor into the Tortoise Room, with soothing and glib promises that he would return to the party, that he would not breach protocol, but that sitting for a minute — just a minute, Serenity — would allow him to catch his breath. Edrehasivar moved like a clockwork toy; just movement, the only thing betraying that his heart was in turmoil the silent tears that he occasionally raised his hands to wipe away, until he seemingly forgot about his rings, and scratched his cheek with the back of his hand. Not for the first time, Cala regretted his own choice of words — _we cannot be friends_ — that had made the Emperor draw back into himself. Edrehasivar was used to relying on himself, that much was clear, for affection and kindness as well as the mundanities of life, and, frustratingly, it was difficult to tell when he would push back against Beshelar’s criticisms or Cala’s attempts to steer him, or when a single statement or admonishment would make him close off, ears flattening slightly in a tell that he was still learning to disguise. Should Cala reach out now? Would Edrehasivar accept it? He didn’t know. 

The question was answered for him. Daringly, once they’d discreetly ushered the emperor to the Tortoise Room and got him seated, Csvet reached out and took one of the Emperor’s hands, as the Emperor had taken the hand of the dying, half-remembered Osmerrem Danivaran. Edrehasivar, who hadn’t been fretting with his fingers, steepling them as he did when under true stress, somehow still managed to radiate confusion and misery. He gripped Csvet’s hand in return so tightly the skin on his knuckles went pale grey and taut. 

“Serenity,” said Csvet. “What do you need?” 

The emperor did not answer. Csvet, held there by the hand clutching his as if it were a lifeline thrown to a drowning man, did not speak further, but his thumb ran over Edrehasivar’s — Maia’s — knuckles. 

Cala sent for a bowl of warm water and a soft cloth. When they arrived, after what seemed years of awkwardly standing with an emperor who did not know how to seek comfort, and all three of them not quite knowing how to give it without overstepping, he set himself down at Maia’s other side. 

“Serenity, may we…?” asked Cala, gesturing with the cloth. “Our father used to do this for us, many years ago.” 

“Would that we had your father,” said the emperor, so quietly that Cala almost thought he’d imagined it. Cala dipped the cloth in the water, and as Maia fully realised what Cala was doing, he nodded. “Yes, that’s a good idea. We must be presentable. Beshelar was right. We must return to the Untheileian.” 

We must do nothing of the sort, thought Cala, taking in Maia’s unhealthy aura; his pinched cheeks that even the slight swelling of tears couldn’t disguise. If he could be bundled up and convinced to sleep for a week, Cala would do it. He brought the cloth to where Maia had rubbed his skin sore trying to hide his tears; Maia flinched at its first touch, then relaxed a little, closing his eyes, letting Cala work. 

“This is new to us,” Maia said, as Cala washed his face. This closeness was almost stepping across the line that Cala had been warned to draw between them — but then, Cala wondered how many times the young Maia had wept, and how many times he’d gone uncomforted. He wrung out the warm cloth, and then dried the tracks of tears. There. If the emperor insisted on returning to his guests, he would look presentable. 

Well. It was properly the duty of the edocharei to make the emperor presentable, but Cala yearned to help further, and he did not know how to help in such a way that would not risk his emperor withdrawing. He went to speak, but just as he drew breath, Beshelar put a hand on his shoulder. He looked again; they would not return to the Untheileian. The emperor had fallen asleep. 

“I’ll clear the corridors,” whispered Csvet. “We must get him to his rooms before he wakes, and tries to do anything but go back to sleep.” So Csvet was also worried, Cala thought. It was hard not to be. 

Csvet extricated his hand from the Emperor’s, and spirited off to clear their way; Beshelar scooped the Emperor up in his arms, and for an instant Cala thought he might wake, but he simply shifted, and settled his head on his nohecharei’s shoulder, unguarded in sleep in a way he never was when wakeful. Cala doubted the emperor would have allowed any of the intimacies of this night, had he not been grief-sick and exhausted. 

Csvet, it seemed, had called for Esha to help undress Maia for the night; they were both waiting when Cala and Beshelar arrived, Maia still fast asleep in Beshelar’s arms. True, true, they could not simply put him to bed in his fine clothes. The emperor stirred, when he was set on the edge of the bed, curtains pulled back and framing the scene like a soft-lit painting, but he was not truly wakeful — his eyes dropped closed as soon as they’d opened, and his ears drooped. Cala was fiercely proud that no-one else got to see him like this — that they could preserve his dignity and pride, protect him from prying eyes and ears even in this small way. Now they needed to work out how to preserve his heart, and his body — how to help him when he refused assistance. 

“Get the fur-lined robe,” he found himself saying. 

“It’s not for sleeping—” said Esha, ears flattening. 

“Get it,” said Beshelar, and ah, he’d seen it too, that after a long, cold day, Maia liked to curl up in his fur-lined robe, one of the few luxuries he allowed himself to actually _enjoy_. It might help to comfort him in his dreams. 

“We shall inform the Lord Berenar that the emperor will not return tonight,” said Csvet, once Maia had been tucked into bed by Beshelar, curled up in his warmest robe, frowning in his sleep. Csvet gazed down at him, starting forward as if to touch him, to tuck an errant curl off his face, to smooth the covers — but he caught himself at the last moment. 

“Wait,” said Cala, voice hushed. “You wanted to do something. Do it.” 

Beshelar’s ears twitched. “What?” he asked. 

But Csvet had interpreted Cala’s meaning correctly. He sat on the edge of the bed, and with the same thumb that had passed soothingly over the emperor’s knuckles, gently smoothed out the frown that marred his brow. Beshelar sucked in a breath, but held his counsel. 

“Would that we could smooth out all your path so easily,” whispered Csvet, and the three of them stood, watching over their emperor for a few more moments of quiet companionship, before Csvet whisked off to dissolve the party, and Beshelar moved to guard the outer chamber. Cala watched Edrehasivar carefully; the frown stayed away, and slowly his breathing became the deep, easy rhythm of restful sleep. 

There were no nightmares; he made a silent prayer of thanks. 


End file.
